Talk Is Cheap
by lingering nomad
Summary: Two conversations, one with each of the brothers Hawke. During one of which Fenris makes the first move. Essentially asks and answers the question of what would happen if Hawke was not the flirtatious type.


**Topography:** "spoken dialogue," "_flashback dialogue_," '_thoughts_,' _emphasis_, _ shifts in pov/setting

**A/N: **Big, big thank you to Sassywolf23 for R&Ring 'The Trouble with Luck.' All feedback is appreciated, of course, but comments on Gen fics are extra special, so you are extra awesome, girl! A reminder that this series (I think it's reached the point where I can call it that, lol) deviates slightly from the Bioware timeline in that Fenris gets the book at the end of Act 1. It just makes more sense for these two, as I hope you'll all agree. Also, aggro!Hawke, yo! He's a good guy, but not a particularly nice one. Having him teach Fenris to read is a murder-suicide waiting to happen, which is why I leave it up to Leandra. Enjoy!

~Talk Is Cheap~

It was in a roadside tavern, at the end of the first day's travel to the Bone Pitt mines, that the younger of the brothers joined him in his gloomy little corner at the far-side of the inn. He hadn't solicited the human's company, but insisting that he take his leave seemed excessively boorish. Not to mention more effort than it was worth. The younger Hawke was half-way through a pitcher filled with the dark, pungent liquid the publican had peddled as ale, though judging by the smell, the elf reckoned it would fare better as an accelerant than a beverage.

The mages –the elder brother and that tall, emaciated newcomer, '_Anders'_ – remained entrenched at the bar, the froth long since dissipated from the untouched and likely forgotten tankards perched on the counter beside them. A waste of good coin in Fenris' opinion. Though, better that, than a trio of hung-over humans on the road the next day. As it stood, one was bound to be taxing enough.

Carter? Casper? No, _Carver_, sat down with an exaggerated sigh, gaze trailing Fenris' to the pair. His features, flushed with drink, hardened to stone as he huffed his contempt.

Many things seemed to garner that response from his fellow swordsman, though if Fenris wasn't mistaken, the boy's current scowl bore an edge that cut deeper than the blustering rebellion typically aimed at his sibling. "Don' know why Wreath insists on dragging that whiny bastard along," the lad grumbled, confirming at least part of Fenris' suspicions, "mean, if it's arse he's after, he c'n get better at the Rose for a lot less shit." Finding crude humour in the words, Carver snorted into his tanked before taking another deep swig of its contents.

Fenris sat straighter in his lopsided chair, disturbed, though not by the joke. "Your brother..._beds men_?" he queried, unable to strip the incredulity from his tone.

It had been a month since the elder's terse, "_You owe me for this,_" brought their paths into alignment. Spoken in the Kirkwall Alienage with the scent of fresh death on the air and the bodies of a full regiment of Imperial Hunters scattered around them. The man's bearing had been wary, calculating. That of one accustomed to assessing danger and applying a price, but the edges were worn, smoothed by what even Fenris' jaded eyes could see was a look of understanding. The bounty hunter he'd seen before him that night, was a man who _knew_ what it was to live in the shadow of fear, calling no place 'home' lest he find his back to a wall, and he'd resign no other to that fate.

Never, in all Fenris' life, would he have expected to see an understanding of such things peering out through the eyes of a_ mage._

Carver's glare turned on him. "You got an issue, you keep it to yourself, hear me?" he growled, tone thick with the same warning he'd issued on the night they'd met. "_…problem with my brother, you have a problem with me._"

"S'long as everyone's willing," the lad went on, "it's a man's own business where he sheathes his sword. Not that the great bastion of the Amell-Hawkes ever does, mind. Reckon he'd be a lot more tolerable if he did. Just, y'know, not with—" He cast a disparaging nod at the bar, with much less subtlety than he seemed to realise.

The objects of his derision were engrossed in a discussion of their own, however. One that required a great deal of animated gesturing from the blonde, offset by the odd quirked brow or wry half-smirk from the elder Hawke. Fenris stared, not seeing anything untoward about the interaction. Well, other than that two mages were openly conspiring, but nothing to hint at carnal interest between them. Then Hawke said something, eyes heavy-lidded, both corners of his lips tilting up. The blonde laughed; leaned forward, fingers alighting on the naked skin of a forearm, densely corded with the sort of strength only honed in close combat. There was a hint of friction. Ever so slightly protracted withdrawal. Just enough to turn a pat on the arm into a fleeting caress.

Not obvious.

Not blatant.

Nothing that would draw attention.

That was how the game was played in Tevinter – and in the Free Marches as well, it would seem.

"…_So long as everyone's willing._" Fenris frowned. In the Imperium, where the warping of intent by magic and blood was viewed as a matter of 'love and war,' _that_ statement would account for very little as assurances went. The consent of a puppet, whether controlled by the Fade or simple fear, was consent nonetheless.

Watching the pair across the room, Fenris' first impulse was to believe the worst: that neither would hesitate to twist reluctance into ardour if it suited their whims.

No sooner had the thought crystallised, however, than a contrary inkling niggled, reminding him that Hawke at least had proven himself to be no blood mage and that while there was something undeniably _wrong _with the blonde, he was fairly certain that it wasn't _that_. The elder brother was not one to be accused of a pleasant disposition, but Fenris had seen his outrage on behalf of an elven father when human guards refused to bring a magistrate's child-killing son to justice for fear of the bureaucrat's wrath. Then, splattered with the dark blood and stinking viscera of giant arachnids, Hawke had sheathed his sword and softened his tone, even stooped to a knee – all in a bid to appear less imposing to an elvish girl, yet he showed no mercy to the human who'd harmed her.

When the self-proclaimed murderer begged for death, Fenris had volunteered to carry out the deed, accustomed to the ways of the Imperium where magisters didn't dirty their hands with such things. Hawke didn't even acknowledge the offer, condemning the man as a 'monster' before slitting his throat where he stood.

Here was a man, who commanded the power to _crush_ _bone_ with a _thought_.

And yet, he'd used a blade.

There was no display of supremacy in the killing of Kelder Vannard; no unsubtle intimidation for those who stood in attendance. Just righteous anger at the perversion of what passed for justice in Thedas and a concerted effort to remedy what little he could.

Fenris knew the line between optimism and delusion to be on the thin side, but there were sufficient real threats to contend with without imaging yet more where none existed. He served himself as much as anyone by granting the pair the advantage of his doubt. It was Hawke's turn to speak and, true to form, the man did so with more restraint than the blonde had shown. There was, however, a nostalgia to his bearing that Fenris recognised. From several evenings spent in the mansion he'd claimed, after a bottle or two of his master—of _Danarius' _wine.

His scowl deepened and he averted his gaze, scanning his recollections of the last four weeks for any clues he might've missed. He'd received Hawke – a blighted _Fade leech_ – in what was effectively his home. He'd imbibed liquor with him. Had stood beside him half-nude as they washed after battles. And not once, in all that time, had the man so much as hinted—

A stray thought cut across the elf's mind, drawing his gaze back to the nearest brother.

"And what of you?" he ventured, flippantly as he knew how. If the youth's appearance at his table was a prelude to anything more than awkward conversation and a steadying hand when the flammable 'ale' inevitably went to his head, Fenris would prefer to have it clarified sooner rather than later.

"What _about_ me?" the boy mumbled, speaking against the rim of the pitcher.

"Do you share your brother's...choice of scabbard?" Fenris tried, cringing inwardly at the metaphor. Concerns over his eloquence vanished swiftly, though, as Carver's eyes boggled over his tankard, and the elven warrior's reflexes stood him in good stead as a mouthful of cheap alcohol sprayed across the table.

"Eulgh, no way!" the boy sputtered, dragging the back of a hand roughly across his mouth. "Wreath does what _he_ likes, and I do what _I_ like, and _I _like _women_, got it?!" he said, underscoring the words with two blunt fingers pointed at Fenris.

"Understood," he briskly affirmed, adding a deferential nod for emphasis. His question had been answered. The last thing he wished was for a drunken account of every notch, real or invented, on the young fighter's bedpost in some mulish endeavour to prove just how little the brothers Hawke had in common on this score. Among others. In fact, were it not that their faces and forms had obviously been cast from a common mould, Fenris would've been hard pressed to believe that there was anything but friction between them; that, and the strange brand of loyalty whereby no one was permitted to criticise the elder except for the younger himself.

Silence settled between them as Carver continued his quest to down his pint in record time, leaving Fenris wishing for a tankard of his own, if only for the diversion that pretending to take a swig would provide. The human's emphatic response had garnered a measure of relief, at least. The boy was far from unsightly, if one were inclined to cast such a glance, but he was just that: _a boy_.

In his nineteenth year, his brother had said.

Fenris was unapprised of the number that marked the span of his own life, not least because his memories only went back about seven, but he thought of himself as being _years_ older than Carver. He knew that three had passed since he turned his back on Danarius and fled, trading the gilded noose of enslavement for the unfettered, unending freefall that was life on the run. He also knew the barebones of the Hawke family's escape from the Blight; knew there'd been a sister – another mage no less – who hadn't lived through the journey. So, it was not that he believed the younger Hawke's existence to be blithe and carefree, but he couldn't imagine _ever _being as boyishly callow as that. It was a trait that spoke of being sheltered. Even after crawling through the Void, and Fenris couldn't help but feel a tiny stab of envy.

Turning his gaze toward the bar again, he studied the mages through the fall of his hair. The conversation seemed to have taken a sombre turn, judging by the two men's sobered expressions and Fenris wondered, with more than passing interest, what they were discussing. A month might not be the longest time by which to measure an acquaintance, but the blonde's sudden debut had shifted the dynamics of their group and not for the better. Hawke had always carried an intensity about him, but there was a new strain to his bearing that hadn't been there before.

Considering how everyone quieted when the subject came up, Fenris suspected it had something to with the score of dead templars found in the Chantry the previous week, but…

It made no sense.

From what he'd witnessed of Hawke's dealings with the clergy, the Chantry was the _one_ institution in Thedas that commanded a degree of reverence from him. Not to mention:

"…_You owe me for this._"

If the mage intended to stir a row with holy warriors on consecrated ground, it stood to reason that he would enlist all the aid at his disposal. Yet, the first word Fenris had heard on the matter, was that of the criers. Perhaps he could ask that nosy dwarf with the crossbow – Varric – when they got back to Kirkwall. The hairy little man seemed to keep abreast of everything that occurred in the City of Chains and if Hawke was planning some ill-fated standoff against the powers-that-be, Fenris might be forced to re-evaluate the wisdom of their alliance.

Then again, it was not as though he had a plethora of alternatives to choose from.

"…_You owe me for this._"

At the time of its issuance, the stipulation hadn't seemed particularly daunting. '_After all,_' he'd told himself, '_nothing this one might ask for could possibly be worse than what Danarius will inflict._'

Overcome with relief at the prospect of aid, it hadn't occurred to him to wonder how two humans, a dwarf and a dog had made short work of Imperial guards, several of whom would've undoubtedly had magic, nor did he think to question when mention of a Tevinter magister didn't elicit so much as a flinch. Then, they entered the manor and stepped into the atrium.

The smell of brimstone hit him first, acrid and smothering. The heat came next, a blast of wind, searing as flame. Fenris had stared, numb with something greater than shock as the floor itself began to melt and a beast of fire and coal, thrice as tall as a human rose up from the bubbling flagstone. The creature bellowed, unleashing a sound like an inferno roaring to life. And then, twin embers of purest malevolence had settled on him. It lunged—

And _missed_ as the very air wrapped around his body and yanked. He was pulled off his feet, landing hard in the relative shelter of the alcove between the wall and the stairs, sprawling alongside the boy and the dwarf and the hound. The Fade beast thundered again and Fenris looked up, expecting to die. Instead, he found himself watching as barbs of ice, thick as tree limbs, shot out from the flooring, the ceiling, the walls, impaling the demon from every side. As one melted, another would rise, quenching the creature's molten steel 'flesh' wherever they pierced, leaving it blackened, brittle and crumbling.

The clash of heat and cold set off a veritable squall in the room. And in the midst of it all, with long black hair whipping in the currents as a maelstrom of light and wind and ice encircled his form like a shield, was the sword-carrying, armour-clad bounty hunter from the Alienage clearing.

"..._You owe me..._"

A blighted mage.

"_I will find a way to repay you, I swear it._"

And Fenris had sworn an oath.

'_Venhedis, what have you done_?!' Huddled against the steps, with the nightmarish gale thrashing overhead, Fenris had waited. For blood to spill, for the cloying decay of malignant magic to seep into his flesh through the lyrium embedded within.

And waited in vain.

The demon's frozen from shattered with a groaning keen and the tempest stilled as abruptly as it'd flared. The fiend was gone, but…so was Danarius, if he'd ever been there at all.

It'd been a trap.

All of it.

All along.

"_Is anyone injured?_" Hawke demanded as he trotted over, stooping to fuss over his brother first. The man – no, the _mage_ – had stood alone against a demon. And his victory had barely broken a sweat.

A trap indeed. In more ways than one.

"_Holy shit, Hawke," _the dwarf began, voice low in his awe, almost a whisper, "_I knew you were a…but, you _really_ are a…_" as if the word itself was something to fear and suddenly, Fenris couldn't breathe.

"_I…need some air._"

He'd meant to run. From the house, from Kirkwall altogether, but he only made it as far as the terrace when his feet refused to move, stilled by an exhaustion that ran deeper than his marrow. He couldn't outpace Danarius' reach forever; the events of the night had made that glaringly clear. What was more, he'd been deluded to think that he had even a glimmer of a chance to best his master if it came down to a duel. The magister's power was simply too great, and he knew 'his little wolf' all too well.

He heard the door groan open a moment before the others appeared. Hawke had looked at him askance, as if surprised to find him there, and the thought that he was _so_ transparent that a stranger could peer into the craven core of him had jolted him into posturing.

"…_You have an issues with mages?_" asked guardedly, watchfully as if Fenris could possibly hope to threaten a man who'd felled a demon by summoning a blizzard. The dog had growled, the brother had chipped in with his warning and the dwarf had looked down his nose at him (stature notwithstanding) as if thinking him a thankless wretch for his rudeness. It was then, in that instant, that he'd made the decision that brought him to a wobbly chair in a squalid inn, half-listening as a human whelp prattled on about the hardships of life 'in his brother's shadow' and how much of a 'tit' their uncle was.

"…_You owe me..._"

The elf doused a sigh. Hawke's way of collecting was, well, not what he'd expected, to be sure.

He'd offered his blade and unique skills in battle to compensate for the man's assistance and Hawke had accepted. He still cut Fenris in on a share the takings, however, which meant that he'd effectively been granted employment. Upon announcing his intent to lodge at the manor, Hawke had gone back in to see about discharging any summoning runes that remained, but not before questioning his sanity for wanting to sleep in a place where the Veil had been breached.

A mage who believed dealings with demons to be madness.

It was almost as incongruous as watching one casually accept orders from a magically-untalented she-elf, yet, Fenris had watched Hawke do _that_ as well. The man had even helped to ingratiate him to the city guard. And when he got called a 'rabbit' in that Hanged-pup where the dwarf lived, Hawke had cowed an apology out of the offender before Fenris could act, snapping an explicit warning about the repercussions of disrespecting, "_his friends_..."

Fenris' gaze strayed back to where the dark-haired mage was laughing, presumably at something the blonde had said. It was a rare sight, indeed, and he found himself studying the man in a light he'd staunchly refused to acknowledge before.

Elves routinely claimed to find humans repulsive and their men especially so. While Fenris had seen specimens of both genders that were less than inspiring, he had to concede that the elder of the Hawkes exuded a certain…_draw _that he wasn't entirely immune to. He'd told himself that it was merely a sense of appreciation for the first person in years to stand with him against his pursuers; the first in his memory to deal with him as simply '_a man_' as opposed to an asset, or a threat, or a '_knife-ear._' It was _not_ gratitude that compelled him to note the girth of a curled bicep as Hawke hefted a load of firewood into the camp, however, and it certainly wasn't a sense of indebtedness that had his eyes trailing the slope of the man's spine, lingering on the bunch and flex of his rear when Fenris was certain none of the others were paying attention.

It was not that Fenris particularly _wanted _to notice these things.

He would rather _not_ have observed that the colour of Hawke's eyes matched the depths off the Wounded Coast, and he certainly didn't need the idiotic curiosity about the texture of the man's hair, lapping like waves at his shoulders, drawing the eye to the sturdy expanse. He didn't want his head filled with thoughts of the human's full lips and strong hands as he drifted off to sleep, nor of the smoky-ozone scent that clung to his skin. Like fire and rain. Wild and fierce and bright and free.

And dangerous.

So very, very dangerous.

Most of all, Fenris didn't want to trust – didn't dare to – but there was no denying that Thedas had become a less daunting place since he'd crossed paths with the Fereldan. Savage as the man appeared, decked in worn leather and battered chainmail, greatsword at his back and the Fade itself pooled in his hands, there was something almost comforting beneath that stormy surface.

Unchanging, like deep water. Stalwart as stone.

It was strange and foreign and Fenris was…_intrigued,_ despite his better judgement.

The man hadn't made any carnal overtures toward him, no. But perhaps, when they were alone and back in Kirkwall, it wouldn't hurt to test the waters; to send a cautious ripple across that still façade. To just…let Hawke know that the option was…_available_, should he ever think to amend the terms of their arrangement.

Fenris had done worse in the name of survival, after all. Muchworse, in fact. And if he had to follow through, at least with Hawke, his compliance wouldn't hinge entirely on fear.

"…it walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck, then it's a flaming _duck_,right?" Carver checked. He seemed unaware of the elf's wandering thoughts and Fenris nodded, more for the sake of propriety than agreement. "Right!" the boy enthused, "but then, Wreath says, the fact he's a healer means it _can't_ be a demon. 'Cause healing's a spirit-gift, see, and the spirits would withdraw it if he was a _true_ Abomination. So I ask him, I say, 'Wreath, if he's got something from the Fade in him that makes his eyes glow, and his voice change, and lets him shoot out bolts of magic that templars can't block, you _really_ think the Order's gonna split hairs over what else he can do?' And then, Wreath says—"

Fenris blinked as he listened, lips parting slowly as bewilderment settled over his features, "Wait. _What_ did you just say?!"

* * *

><p>"…What about Aveline?" Fenris hedged, scowling at the label of the wine bottle in his hand. He couldn't read it, but he could make out the year, 9:19 with a picture of a dragon beside it. Hawke had said it was Orlaisian, which meant it was probably very expensive.<p>

He set the bottle to his lips and swallowed twice before handing it to his guest. Hawke was leaving for the Deep Roads upon the morrow. He'd declared Fenris' debt repaid with the conclusion of his agreement with the Tethras brothers, thus freeing the elf to depart from Kirkwall without breaking faith.

Hawke was doing his level best to change that, however.

"She'll be here," the mage replied, taking the proffered wine, "but she's accustomed to being the hunter, not the prey. I don't know if she'll know what to look for."

The man had asked Fenris to safeguard his mother and by extension, his uncle, while he and his brother were off traipsing through some ancient, subterranean, plague maze that may or may not contain treasure. And Hawke had come bearing gifts. A book of all things, compelling Fenris to reveal his inability to read, followed by a brief debate on whether or not thanks were in order.

It _was_.

Danarius had given him things on occasion. Fenris recalled a tunic that "_showed off_" his markings, preserving just enough of his modesty to uphold the myth that magisters didn't actually lie with their slaves. There'd been a fur-lined collar at some point, embellished with precious stones that supposedly "_matched his eyes_," and later, a stronger, sharper blade to wield as he escorted his master into Qunari lands. The one thing all the items held in common was that each, in some way or another, had served the magister's interests far better than his own.

Hawke's gift, on the other hand, was a very old tomb. Ancient even. The mage had explained that it chronicled the life of an elven slave before the advent of Andraste and that it bore all the hallmarks of being penned by Shartan himself. Fenris' illiteracy meant that he had to take the human at his word, but he had no cause to suspect him of lying.

The book was undoubtedly valuable.

Fenris had watched Hawke scrape to buy his way into the dwarf siblings' Deep Roads madness and spending that much coin, to _enter _a place that most people would pay to _avoid_, well, it said something about the mage's level of desperation.

Hawke claimed that he'd happened upon the book months earlier, while still in that she-elf's employ. There must've been a point at which he was tempted to sell it. Yet, he'd resisted thus far, only to present it to Fenris. Yes, it was meant as a bribe of sorts, and yes, Hawke had enemies (notably templars) that were beyond the city guards' capacity to repel, but this…

It was a gift that'd been chosen for _Fenris'_ benefit, based on considerations of what mattered to _him_. Moreover, relinquishing the tomb was not without a cost to Hawke. The man had recently invested fifty sovereigns (more than a years' wages for a dockworker in Kirkwall, and the sum of his family's wealth) with a couple of dwarves he barely knew. A gamble if ever Fenris had seen one. The book was likely all that remained of the human's nest egg, and yet, he was willing to part with it in exchange for Fenris' word that he would stand in Hawke's stead to protect that which the man valued more highly than gold.

To be afforded such trust was…_humbling_. In fact, it was the sheer magnitude of the gesture that left him reluctant. Functioning as Danarius' conditioned pet was one thing; being relied upon as an ally – as _an equal_, and of a _mage _no less – was quite another.

He watched as Hawke tilted the bottle and took a swig; watched as he rolled the liquid in his mouth, savouring the flavours before swallowing. Hawke held the bottle out and Fenris made to take it, but the mage held on, urging him to look up and meet his eyes. "If more of those Tevinter thugs turn up," Hawke said, wearing the no nonsense expression he donned when he spoke about remaining free of the Circle and protecting his kin, "fight only as much as you must to get away. Once you do, head to the Keep. I've spoken to Aveline. She'll make sure the guards have your back in this. Day or night."

That the man would think to make arrangements on _his_ behalf jarred something in Fenris. His first instinct was to protest, to deny needing _anyone's_ help, but Hawke was one of a handful of people who would know that for the lie which it was.

The wine was released and Fenris took it, but he didn't bring it to his lips. "I've wanted to leave my past behind me," he admitted, addressing the bottle, "but it won't stay there." He sighed and looked to Hawke, "Tell me, have you never wanted to return to Ferelden?" The question had niggled at him since learning of the man's origins, but he hadn't been bold enough to pose it before.

Hawke seemed slightly taken aback by the query, as if it dug a little too deep for his liking, but he answered nonetheless. "I grew up in Ferelden," he said, gaze turning fond as he reached down to pat the Mabari dozing at his feet. "It will _always_ be my home."

Touching as the response was, it was not particularly conclusive. "The Blight _is_ over," Fenris pointed out. "You could rebuild what you've lost. Do you truly not want to?"

A pensive scowl crossed Hawke's visage, one that spoke of remembered pain and lingering grief. "I've started a life _here_," he said, almost terse as a note of defensiveness rang through his tone.

Fenris bristled.

Danarius had taken much from him – dignity, honour, self-respect – but it was the black void that gaped where memories of his childhood should've been that made the task of reclaiming anything else seem all but insurmountable at times. Velún was a small hamlet on the outskirts of Orlais and one of many places that would afford a few days' rest to an eleven fugitive, provided he kept his head bowed and didn't tarry too long. While there, Fenris had learned an adage: dans l'incertitude, trouver la possibilité infinite. '_In uncertainty, find infinite possibility_.'

It was meant in a positive light. Fenris understood that; had even made it something of a mantra when the sheer unpredictability of a runaway's existence seemed more than he could bear. Yet, it was that same infinity that spanned before him – as if peering through a kaleidoscope, filled with its thousands of tiny, shattered fragments, constantly shifting, never quite slotting into place – that left him dazed and ready to stumble whenever he tried to speculate on his past. It was the _one_ part of himself that he could never regain; not without Danarius' input, and Fenris was secure in the bitter certainty that there was nothing he could hope to inflict that would impel the magister to divulge such facts. To do so, would be to acknowledge a slave's existence apart from his input and Danarius would sooner die than make allowance for that.

Hawke would face no such impediments if he wished to retrace his steps, and the idea that the mage would squander the chance, as though it meant _nothing_—

In his envy, it seemed unconscionable to the elf. "And that's it?" Fenris needled, "You would leave it behind _so_ easily?"

"I lost _my sister_ to the Blight," Hawke gritted out. The flash of anger never lit in his eyes, though. Instead, his gaze seemed to darken, growing weary about the edges, and Fenris was abruptly reminded that some journeys were just too convoluted to repeat.

"And now she no longer matters to you? I…apologise," he said. Haltingly, but sincere. "Your life is your own, it simply…sounds very familiar."

Hawke nodded, taking the wine from him. He drank deep and fast before handing it back. Without stopping to savour, Fenris couldn't help but note.

For a moment, there was only the sound of the fire and the working of his own throat as he took a swig himself.

"Do _you_ intend to keep living here?" Hawke asked when Fenris' mouth was free to respond.

"I haven't decided," he said, wiping his lips on the back of his hand. "For now, it's as good as any other place," and it wasn't even a lie; he simply neglected to add how heavily his decision would hinge on Hawke's. For he knew that whatever was agreed upon now, if the mage's jaunt through the Deep Roads went as planned, Hawke would have little cause to remain saddled with a Tevinter runaway, least of all one who disagreed with his politics on principle.

Fenris shrugged as he relinquished the wine. "I would return to Seheron if I could, but there is no life for me there."

"Is that where you're from?" Hawke asked. He'd started to raise the bottle for a drink, but lowered it at the mention of the island.

"So I've been told," Fenris said, mentally berating himself for the slip.

"Were you very young when you left, then?"

"Perhaps."

Hawke frowned at this, but he pressed no further and Fenris was glad. His amnesia was arguably the greatest of his weaknesses (many though there were) and the thought of confessing it aloud made him feel naked, as if stripped of his very skin – more exposed than acknowledging his enslavement or his ignorance of the written word even, and his tunic was thin enough beneath Hawke's scrutiny as it was.

"You could track your former master down, I assume," Hawke changed the subject, cutting to the heart of the matter. Or at least, to the reason Fenris had cited for not immediately agreeing to guard the man's kin in his stead: the need to stay abreast of Danarius' dealings; of the magister's comings and goings. It sounded better, he thought. Affording his flight a veneer of method and strategy. As though he and Danarius were opponents on opposite ends of chessboard, rather than he, a rodent dashing frantically through a transparent circuit and his master, a feline that waited untiringly for his quarry's strength to deplete.

"I imagine he has returned to Minrathous," Fenris surmised, failing to mention his doubt as to whether the magister had ever left the Imperium's Capitol to begin with, "though, I dare not go near the city while he is alive. No. It is better to wait for him to leave his fortress. Fight from a fortified position."

He hesitated.

The admission was difficult to make, yet no more so than all but begging for Hawke's help in the Alienage had been, and that had turned out well enough. As if hefting a weight, Fenris raised his gaze to the human's and spoke the truth, "I would not expect your help when that day comes, but I would not turn it aside."

Hawke, did _not _hesitate, "Don't leave, then. Stay."

The blunt surety surprised Fenris. Pleasantly even. A smile tugged at his lips as a curious warmth that had naught to do with the wine bloomed at his centre. "I could see myself staying," he conceded, "for the right reasons."

That coaxed a smile from Hawke as well. Not the usual wry half-smirk, or the callous sneer he donned when engaging an opponent who'd pushed too far. _This_, was a smile that softened his features, calming the storm in his eyes.

For a moment, Hawke looked the part of the young man he was, rather than an overwrought apostate trying to balance the weight of Thedas upon his broad shoulders, and the image was enough to cause Fenris' breath to stall in his chest.

Recalling the younger brother's revelation of weeks earlier, he leaned slightly forward, chin tilted just so, adopting a posture that a man of certain leanings could not mistake. "I…should thank you again for your help against the Hunters," he heard himself saying, meeting the ever-intense blue stare through his lashes. Hawke's brows rose inquiringly at the change in demeanour and Fenris tried not to think about what he intended to do. He knew from experience that he would only lose his nerve if he did. "Had I known Anso would find me a man so capable, I might have asked him to look sooner."

Confusion knitted Hawke's brows for a beat, but his eyes quickly widened as he caught on to the mild innuendo.

Doubt rose in Fenris, whispering that he'd made a fool of himself; that Hawke didn't favour elves in the same way he did men of his own kind. He was on the verge of retracting the implied invitation and blaming the wine, when the mage's mouth ticked up at a corner, a knowing gleam igniting in his stare. '_Not offended, then_,' Fenris thought to himself, equal parts nervous and relieved.

Hawke leaned forward, mimicking his posture. "Talk, is cheap," he enunciated clearly, voice low. Intimate, but decisive.

As was Hawke's way, several meanings threaded through the economy of words. There was a petition, '_if you mean it, be the help I need right now_;' an appeal, '_if you mean it, be _here_ when return;_' and a challenge as well, '_I'm flattered, but if you mean it, you have some convincing to do_.'

"Is that so?" Fenris quipped, smiling despite the oblique prod at his motives.

There was a sense of something being sealed between them and even though he couldn't say what it was, he felt inexplicably heartened by it. He rose from his chair and stood before Hawke. When he thought back on this moment, he wanted to recall being up on his feet, as opposed to down on his knees. "Perhaps I'll practice my flattery for your next visit?" he dared a challenge of his own. "With any luck I'll become better at it."

Logic asserted that if Hawke's Deep Roads excursion went as planned, he was unlikely to have need of a magister's damaged plaything upon his return.

However, as the mage grinned, raising the wine in a toast to the words, a small voice, long dormant and speaking from further back than Fenris' memories spanned, said that there was hope to be found here.

And that perhaps, he was _not_ a fool to believe.

**End A/N:** Check out the notes on my AO3 post of this fic for some awesome art links.


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